


Marching Orders

by Tia_Pixie



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Author has major Constance & Aramis feels, Constance & Aramis have each other's backs, Constance & d'Artagnan have issues too, Early S3, Gen, Help me I've forgotten how to tag usefully, Let's face it there's angst, Tell me some tags guys, The Constance & Aramis Alliance, d'Artagnan and Aramis have issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-18 04:15:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11866500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tia_Pixie/pseuds/Tia_Pixie
Summary: Aramis and d'Artagnan have a falling out, Constance and d'Artagnan have a falling out, Aramis and Constance (surprise!) do not fall out but instead back each other up and then offer all the advice.  Constance patches Aramis up because she has a kit now, Aramis offers marriage advice because he's totally qualified, d'Artagnan does 'the face' - you know the one I mean - and is a grumpy d'Artagnan but he comes good in the end.Or, in which Constance and Aramis would be eating ice cream and watching sad films in their pyjamas if either of those had been invented yet.





	Marching Orders

**Author's Note:**

> Holy good grief of cats - I finished one! And it's longer than 250 words! *applauds self* This work has been on my PC for over a year because it started as a drabble for my series but became this, and maybe there are people out there who will enjoy a 6K Constance and Aramis having each other's back fic as much as I do (yes, I do reread this one). 
> 
> This is very early S3 as I still haven't caught up so it may contradict later S3... Not sure.
> 
> A quick warning, there are very brief and very vague mentions of injury (far less than the show), and of (probably) self-flagellation (because apparently I can't write Aramis without it). But both are brief and non-graphic.

“That was a damn foolish thing you did just now, Aramis!”  D'Artagnan kicks the door open with a crash, and reaches back to drag a somewhat dishevelled Aramis into the parlour.

Constance looks up.  Then, with a sigh, she sets down her laundry.  She had insisted on doing her own – particularly when it was just her here – even though the garrison laundry goes to the washerwomen once a week.

Shaking her head, she goes to see what the commotion is.  She wonders if it is odd, how accustomed to this sort of thing she has become now.  Though not to her husband and his friends – this was a new kind of wonderful to have them interfering with her days again.  If she had expected peace and quiet once d'Artagnan and his miscreant friends returned to run the garrison, she has been sorely disappointed.

“Most men would thank me,” Aramis is grousing when she joins them, clutching one hand protectively to his ribs.  He straightens as he sees her though.  “Madame d'Artagnan,” he begins, and even after four years she does not think she will ever tire of hearing that name, “forgive the intrusion, but-”

He is cut off as d'Artagnan jerks his arm in frustration and despite herself, Constance has to cover her mouth with her hand to hide her amusement at the affronted expression Aramis directs at him. 

“I mean it!”  D'Artagnan shakes him again, looking fiercer and angrier than she has ever seen him look at someone he does not intend to shoot.  “You could have been killed!”

That sobers her, though she realised Aramis was injured, and she starts towards their friend in concern.  Aramis submits to her touch, allows her to poke and prod at his bloodied side as she pleases while above her the two men rage at each other.

“What did you expect me to do?” the older man demands, hands raised in supplication.  “Stand by and allow his companions to run you through?”

“ _What_?”  She abandons Aramis for a moment and turns to her husband in alarm but he pays her no heed.

“I had them under control – I didn’t need your help!”

Aramis shakes his head, a wry laugh escaping him.

“I am not a boy any more, Aramis!”  D'Artagnan seethes, his hands clenched in angry fists.  “I do not need to be _protected_ – and by you of all people!”

Constance bites her lip as all the air seems to go out of the room.  Her fingers still against the jagged tear across Aramis' shirt.  She looks up.

“Me ‘ _of all people’_?”  Aramis repeats, suddenly quiet. 

D'Artagnan sighs, and waves him away as though flapping at a particularly irritating fly. 

“That's not what I-”

“I was fighting _wars_ while you were _crying_ over scraped knees!”

D'Artagnan laughs suddenly, a tiny, bubbling laugh as though he could not contain it, and nods slowly.  He steps forwards and Constance is shocked to find his eyes alight with _something_.  Not amusement, or teasing as they so often are.  No, this is something mocking, something cruel.  

“And remind me, how many wars have you fought these past four years, hm?” d’Artagnan asks lightly but his eyes betray him.  “ _I_ have been to war, Aramis – while you _tended vegetables_ and _darned socks_!”

For a moment, Aramis only blinks.  Then, far from spitting back some equally spiteful comeback as she expects, drops his gaze, and relents.  He glances at Constance as a flush creeps into his cheeks.  He's embarrassed, she thinks.  Humiliated to be spoken to like this by his 'little brother' in front of her and because he has no answer for d’Artagnan’s jibes – apart from the one he knows will make no difference, that is.  Something wrenches inside of her.  Something that forces her to jump up and stand between them.  She reaches out one hand to d'Artagnan, turns his face towards her.

“Don't speak to him like that,” she objects softly.  “He was just worried about you; he was trying to help you.”

D'Artagnan however, is having none of it. 

“Constance, stay out of this!” he snaps, and takes her by the arms as he moves her aside with barely a glance.  It doesn’t _hurt_ per se, at least not physically but sudden, burning anger flares inside her.  Hot and white and _painful._ Suddenly, Aramis is not the only one for whom she is furious.

“I beg your pardon?” she says, her voice hard.  She stands where he left her but narrows her eyes.  “Who do you think you're talking to?

D'Artagnan huffs, then _finally_ looks at her and releases a growl of wordless frustration.

“ _All right!_   I'm sorry, Constance.” 

He doesn't sound very sorry, she thinks.  He turns back to Aramis and raises one imperious finger at him.

“But _you_ -”

“No!” she says firmly, her years of mothering the cadets and arguing with the Red Guards suddenly standing her in good stead.  She will not have this.  Will not stand to be overlooked.  Cast aside so that the _men_ may talk.  This is not _her_ d'Artagnan, not her boy-hero whose smile used to light up her whole heart – whose smile still does. 

D'Artagnan turns back to her, looking somewhat apologetic at least but she silences him with a look.

“I am your _wife –_ not a recruit!  You do not speak to _me_ like that.  You do not tell _me_ what to do.  You do not _manhandle_ _me_ ”

Throwing his hands up in surrender, d'Artagnan opens his mouth to speak-

“ _I have not finished!_ ”  She is so angry.  Can hardly see for the _hurt_.“I have not stayed here - defended our home from the likes of Feron and Marcheaux, trained your cadets, _darned socks_ , so that when you came back I could be your _little wife!_ I did not wait for– I will not _stay_ with a man who _commands_ me!”

“Constance-”

“There are _boys_ out there in need of training.  Go away and give them your commands!”  She flings her arm out as she speaks, banishes him to the yard.

D'Artagnan stands his ground, lips thin and clearly wishing to argue.  He shoots a glance towards Aramis, who glares back – now as angry on her behalf as she was on his.  Faced with their alliance, d’Artagnan scoffs a bitter laugh.  He shakes his head and Aramis rises suddenly.

“The lady has asked you to leave, d’Artagnan,” he says calmly. 

Constance sees in him suddenly the man he was before – the ever-present promise of violence lurking beneath the charming façade.  He won’t _harm_ d’Artagnan, nor he Aramis she knows (or rather _thinks_ she knows that), but as d’Artagnan squares his shoulders clearly readying himself for a fight that none of them want, she intercedes once more.

“Sit down.  I don’t need you to speak for me,” she bites out, pressing Aramis back into his seat.  He accepts it with as much grace as she can expect, but the two men continue to glare at one another.  Turning back to her husband, she continues icily, “There’s nothing more for you to say.  Go away.”

D’Artagnan’s face softens ever so slightly in the face of her continued anger, but he sighs.  He leaves without another word to either of them.  As the door slams behind him she feels the earth quaking beneath her.

With one hand over her mouth, she turns her back on the door and on Aramis.  Her eyes burn.  She wants her husband’s arms around her, warm and strong and so different and yet the same as when he left all those years ago.  It isn’t fair that the only person who can fix this feeling is the very same that caused it.  Aramis' voice intrudes on her thoughts but she does not turn immediately.

“Well, that was quite a show,” he comments lightly.  “I do so love a woman who takes charge.” She snorts, shaking her head.  “Do shut up, Aramis.”  Said without heat.

“You see? It comes so naturally to you.  It is a talent, my dear Constance.  A true talent.”

"Stop!”  She turns, still hugging herself.  He is smiling but there is no amusement in his face.  He holds one hand out to her and she takes it, lets him pull her closer so that he can hold both of her hands in his. 

“You really shouldn’t have done that,” he informs her, gazing up at her from his seated position.  He looks down briefly, smoothing his thumbs over her knuckles.  “Not for my sake.”

She scoffs darkly.  Typical man - typical Aramis – thinking the world revolves around him.  But that isn’t fair, she knows.  And he sounds so fretful about it that she cannot be annoyed at his presumptuousness.

“It was not for _your_ sake.  I spent years with a man like that.”  She pulls away.  “I will not do it again.”

Aramis’ eyes widen and his head cants to one side 

“You cannot think that of him.  Surely, you must know he would never-”

“That will need stitching,” she interrupts, turning from him, and hurriedly wiping one hand over her face.  “I'll get my kit.”

“The very fact that you have a kit is _extremely_ alarming!” Aramis calls to her retreating back, and she smiles despite herself.

Maybe it was alarming, once.  Now it is necessary.  Comforting.  It means she can stitch her boys back together when the Red Guards beat them senseless because they have no one to train them.  It means that she is _useful_ , even when the entire city is falling apart, not to mention the rest of the country.

“I can do it myself,” Aramis assures her as she returns and sets her kit beside him on the table.  “I'm sure I remember how, no matter what d'Artagnan thinks of me.”

She expects him to sound nervous – she has never put her mark on him before, she realises – but instead he sounds perfectly composed as though he simply does not want to put her out. 

“Ah!  You'll do no such thing!”  She slaps his hand hard as he reaches for the thread.  “Take your shirt off.”

He does not comply immediately, and when she looks at him, there is _definitely_ amusement lurking in the corners of his mouth.  He raises his brows at her, so much his former incorrigible self that her hand itches with the need to slap it out of him.  Just a little of it.

“Stop it!” She points one finger at him but she can feel her own smile growing.  When his manner only grows cheekier, she goes to fetch water instead.  He sounds disappointed at the loss of his audience but from the rustling behind her, he is doing as directed.

“Now, I might not have quite the mastery of it that you-” She stops, almost drops the water bowl.  She has seen injury before.  Has become more familiar with the cruelties of the world in the last four years than she had ever wished to become.  She has seen the lash, what it can do to a man.  But not like this.  Not to one of _hers_. 

Aramis glances over his shoulder at her, confused and still with the hint of a smile.  “Yes?”

“What happened?” she demands, crossing to him, and slamming the bowl down beside him.  Aramis, God bless him, frowns and throws an alarmed look over his shoulder, totally unaware of what could have caused such a response from her.

“Ah.”  Realisation lights his face.  “Yes...that.”

“They did this to you?  At the abbey?”

“Constance,” he begins, taking her hand in his once more.  They are softer than before – not weathered and roughened by pistol or sword like they were, like d'Artagnan's are now.  He bites his lip, sighs a little as if not sure what to say.

“Do the others know?”

“No.”  He huffs a wry laugh.  “Perhaps it will endear me to them, what do you think?  I’m sure it’s no less than you’ve all wanted to do at times.”

 _Aramis_.” 

She doesn't want to joke about it.  This is not _funny_ to her.  The thought that of all her musketeers, the one she thought was if not happy then at least _safe_ has been hurt.  It's superficial, she is familiar enough now to know that, and _years_ old.  But it has still _scarred_ , and it still _hurt_ him at the time, and he doesn't _care_.  None of it ever matters to them once the danger and the pain has passed, but it does to her because it will happen again and there will be nothing she can do and she is _useless_. 

All of a sudden, she feels futility pressing at her eyes again.  She sniffs, scrubbing at her eyes quickly; she has not maintained the garrison all these years by _weeping_ every time one of her boys ran into danger.  But Aramis should have been the one that was _safe_ , that she did not need to worry about.  And she hasn’t, if she is honest with herself.  She has thought of him often – though perhaps not so often as the others – but only thought he might be lonely, _bored_.  After all his misdeeds – Marguerite if nothing else – she had thought seclusion would do him good, serve him right for a while.  But _this…_

“They weren't unkind to me, you know?”  He squeezes her hand and finds her gaze, his eyes soft and sorrowful.  “Truly.  I'd hate for you to think that of them.”

She purses her lips, then puffs air through them miserably.  She reaches out her free hand, turns him around so that she can look.  They are so much worse up close and she _hates_ them. 

“If this is them being kind...”

Aramis ducks his head, and glances at her from beneath his hair. 

“You know the things I’ve done, Constance – what happened because of me.  You more than anyone.  It… It’s so much less than I deserved.”  He pauses, his jaw clenching and eyes falling shut as if he cannot bear to look at her as he speaks of it.  “Not that they knew that.  I never told them.  Never confessed – how could I?  This was my doing, Constance, not theirs.  They only…. helped me along a bit.  Please: don’t think ill of them for that.” 

This is the man she has missed.  Not the swaggering libertine who had first entered her house all those years ago, but the one beneath all that.  _This_.  Kind and so _human_ and so desperately seeking grace.

She raises his face with one hand, tangling the other into his hair as she embraces him.  He huffs a surprised laugh against her but hesitantly raises both hands to clutch at her bodice.  She blushes to think what anyone might think if they were to walk in on them – him half naked and her a married woman – but it isn't improper.   Not really.  Not when he's so much a brother to her husband, not when he needs this care so badly, not when his hands stay resolutely on her back and do not once stray.

“Well, this is nice I must say,” he says after a few minutes, and she can _hear_ him smiling.  The smug little...  She pushes back from him with a frown.

“You always have to ruin the moment, don’t you?”

He grins, twinkling up at her.  “Always.”

* * *

 

 **A** ramis bites back a moan, his right arm extended over her shoulder as she tends to his cut.  It hasn’t gone deep, had mostly stopped bleeding by the time d'Artagnan had dumped him in their parlour, but it is long and Constance doesn't like the way it is stretched whenever he moves too much.          

“All right?”

The man takes a moment to collect himself.  “It's...been a while.”

“I'm sure you'll get used to it again.” 

He will have to, she thinks.  As will she.  Now that d'Artagnan and his ridiculous, vainglorious friends are home she will have no end of injuries to fuel her nightmares again.  But they'll be there at least.  With her.  All of them – her _family_ – together and readying to take on all of Paris again.

“Maybe.” 

He sounds sad again.  He's thinking of them too, she can tell, and she wants to shake him a little bit all of a sudden because what did he expect?  He cannot honestly have thought he would just return to the regiment – to _them –_ and have everything be as it was? 

She can be kinder in her thoughts to d'Artagnan now.  Now that her fury has quietened and she can understand her husband a little better, can think of how unfair all of this on him and the others.  Because of course that's what Aramis thought.  It will have never even occurred to him that they have managed without him, that d'Artagnan has matured and been forced to learn from his mistakes more quickly and painfully because Aramis has not been there to patch him up and make him new.

Aramis has not so much as picked up a sword in four years and still he threw himself between d'Artagnan and an opponent.  No wonder d'Artagnan's pride had been bruised.  No wonder he had been so shocked and frightened by it that he had turned it into anger.  God forbid he should open his fool mouth and say that.  Her idiot boy-hero.

They have talked about Aramis, of course they have, because speaking about him is far easier than talking about Spain and the war, or how Paris has fallen apart without her d'Artagnan.  He has missed his brother, she knows, has needed him more than he likes to admit, wanted him more than he can bear to.  They have done such a good job of it until now, he and Aramis, of pretending that things are as they always were.  Of the three of them, she thinks d’Artagnan is the one Aramis has felt least displaced with; though, things being as they are, he has surely felt displaced _by_ him.  Still, it has seemed so easy for the two of them until now.

“He didn't mean it.”

“I was about to tell you the same thing.”  Aramis grins lopsidedly at her, amused and perhaps a little embarrassed to be so transparent.

"I know.”  She heaves an affected sigh, all good-humour and teasing because he _needs_ that familiarity.  Needs _something_ to be the same.  And maybe she needs it too.  “But I like him a little intimidated.  He does that thing with his face.”

Aramis barks a laugh, throws his head back in surprise at it.  “Ah....yes.”  He smiles fondly, once the throbbing from the ill-advised movement has subsided.  “He looked like that a lot in the early days.”

Constance grins too then, because how can she not?  And they sit for a moment, smiling like fools until Aramis' humour fades and he sighs.  She takes his hand.

“He still wants you,” she tells him softly, speaking candidly because what good has staying quiet done so far? “ _They_ still want you.”

“But they don't _need_ me.  It's as they said: they learned to live without me.”

"And whose fault was that?”  She slaps his bare shoulder lightly and he flinches but nods his acceptance.

"I have prayed for them every day,” he murmurs, gaze far away.  “Seen them die in every conceivable way each night, and known I couldn't stop it from where I was.  And now I’m here and _still_ I- I’m useless to them!  A relic!  A _joke_!”

“You are their friend.  It broke their hearts that you wouldn't go with them – my husband missed _you_ more than me when they left!” 

Aramis turns to her and just looks at her in that quiet, certain way of his and she _feels_ the moment he overcomes his own self-pity for the time being.  He turns his hand in hers until they are linked.

“ _Impossible_.  Madame, you speak such nonsense sometimes.” 

“Yes, well.... maybe.”  She feels a smirk pull at her lips; perhaps she was being just a little self-pitying herself.  “It’s not that I mind, you know, being his ‘little wife’,” she admits, because if she can be honest about Aramis then why not about herself? “I _like_ it – I've missed it.”

Because even when she wasn't his wife, she _was_ ; and he's been gone four years and after four years with Bonacieux he had stopped bothering to even say 'good morning' and d'Artagnan, _her_ d'Artagnan will never do that.  She loves being his wife.  Still trembles in delight when he touches her, feels weak when he looks at her and he's just so... There aren't words for the delight she feels at having him home.  Waking in the morning to his arms around her.  Wearing her hair loose when they're at home because he loves to run his fingers through it.  Quietly mending his shirts while he gallivants with his friends, or dozes beside her.  Flowers on the table at dawn. 

Aramis is watching her still and she blushes under his scrutiny. 

“What?”

“No, just-” he shakes his head - “Madame d'Artagnan, you are a marvel.”

“Stop it.”

“And if your husband does not treat you the way you deserve,” he says brightly, pulling her until she falls into his lap laughing, despite the pain it must cause him, “then I shall gladly do it for him.”

Irrepressible Aramis.  It's so normal, so comfortingly familiar to have this with him and he is so achingly displaced among them that her heart breaks a little for her prodigal friend.  She turns and pushes hair from his face gently, brushes her thumb over the scar on his brow that had been given to him long before either she or d’Artagnan knew him.  If she had thought they had looked intimate earlier...  Six years ago, she would never have allowed herself to be this close – would not trust him as far as she could throw him.  Now, she knows only too well how his heart beats for one woman and the child they made together, and for his brothers even if they are quarrelling.  She has never been so safe alone with a man not her husband.

“You will find a place again, Aramis,” she tells him, watching him drop his gaze to the floor, his arms loosening around her.  “You _will_.  But it will take time, that's all.”

Aramis nods, then looks back up at her, smiling though it doesn’t reach his eyes.  “Until then, _you_ must defend the garrison-” he gently pushes her to stand, “-and _I_ shall darn socks.”

 

 

* * *

 

Aramis sits upon the stairs of the garrison, his _home,_ and feels the cold point of a sword upon his back.  He doesn't speak.  Has run out of things to say, ways to appease without apologising.  And he is _wearied_ by the constant start-stop of his relationships with his friends.  D'Artagnan though...now there was the one he thought he had gotten right.

“Draw and fight, you Spanish dog.”

Mouth thin, he clasps his hands together and glances over his shoulder.  The sword is withdrawn and d'Artagnan plops himself down beside him on the steps. 

“Your side?” the younger man asks after a moment’s pause.

“Seen to by your wife.  The stitches are very fine – truly, she should have been a seamstress.” 

Aramis' half-hearted attempt at levity is rewarded with a snort of amusement – or possibly exasperation.  They do not speak for a long while then, watching the cadets scurrying back and forth.  Finally, d'Artagnan sighs, tilts his head towards him.

“I've come a long way from that Gascon farm-boy you decided to keep, you know.”

“I know.”  Aramis feels something unclench deep in his chest, and frowns.  “I'm not sure that's what happened though.  Acquired perhaps?”  He jostles the younger man's shoulder.  “Couldn’t shake off?”

D'Artagnan's laughter is immediate and easy, just as it always was, the blush creeping into his cheeks just as it always did but he is so _different_ now.  It's been an age since they were last together here on these steps, and yet it's been no time at all and d'Artagnan is just suddenly _older_.  No longer their reckless, naive younger brother.  He carries himself differently – more assured, more used to being challenged and winning – and it _aches_ to think he has accomplished it all without Aramis there to watch.  Hurts too that the boy who had so determinedly looked up to them all suddenly no longer does so.  He can hardly blame d'Artagnan after everything – after Constance had nearly died for Aramis' folly – but still... It just _hurts_.  For goodness sake, they have been apart near twice as long as they had known one another.

D'Artagnan notes his dark mood and sobers quickly. 

“The first time I was wounded,” he begins, watching two cadets hurry by, scuffling playfully and shooting them both curious looks, “I- I _wanted_ you so much.  And every time after that it just… it never really went away, you know?  But...but you _weren't there,_ Aramis, so I managed.  _We_ managed.”

Aramis ducks his head.  He feels ridiculous to have to be told this _again_.  Ridiculous that it had not crossed his mind.  He has spent his four years away from them mourning their loss, but was he truly so conceited that he had fully expected them to do the same?  He's glad they managed.  Really, he is.  And so damn thankful that there was d'Artagnan to hold their brothers up when he did not. 

“Your pistols saved all our lives so many times I lost count,” d'Artagnan continues quietly, as if it's a secret.  “Sometimes, it felt like you were there, watching our backs just like always.  And I always knew you’d be praying for us – mostly me, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Aramis echoes absently, his eyes burning.  Such simple belief in the world – in _him_ – has always come so naturally to d'Artagnan, and it's still _there._ Four years of war have not stamped it out of him.  And Aramis is so _grateful_.  “I am so glad we kept you,” he whispers, with a wet-sounding laugh as he turns to his brother.  “And now you are grown.  You have been to war; you have a wife – you have learned that the secret to marriage is submission.  Really, it's all terribly impressive!  And all this without –“ he stops then, and drops his gaze,  “– without my help.” 

The moment hangs between them, and he knows he is being unforgivably selfish, knows that he does not _deserve_ the reassurance he is silently asking for.  D’Artagnan has already laid his soul bare these last few minutes, it is a poor show to ask him to continue.  Still, when d’Artagnan says nothing immediately, Aramis finds his eyes drifting upwards again, willing him to continue anyway.  D’Artagnan, God bless him, does so.

“There was a time I needed your help – _all_ of you, _all_ the time – but...” He sighs.  “But I don't need you – _any_ of you – to _protect_ me, Aramis.”  He grips his shoulder, raises his brows hopefully, willing Aramis to understand.  When Aramis nods, d’Artagnan smiles.  “I have missed having you to look out for me though.”

And really there's not far for d'Artagnan to go before he is in Aramis' arms then.  Perhaps more the other way around, Aramis reflects ruefully.  It is so different and so familiar, and so like it was before except Aramis feels weak against his brother's war-born strength.  D’Artagnan still tips sideways into Aramis' arms with the same ingenuousness as before, soaking up his affection with the same happy eagerness that had earned him his 'pup' nickname in the first place.  It feels more intimate than when they had first found one another again, in the cellars of the abbey, gentler but surer somehow.  There, they had embraced as before – d’Artagnan again the excitable boy he had been – now it is different.  Now they are equals… almost.

“I will not promise not to jump to your aid,” Aramis says slowly, releasing d'Artagnan, “but perhaps I could stand to be a little less... self-sacrificing in doing so.  I've no more interest in death than you, believe me.  I'm afraid that's all I can offer.”

“I'll take it.  And Aramis, I-”

Aramis looks a question at him and d'Artagnan grimaces.

“Most men _would_ thank you for helping them.  And I do – even if I'd rather you hadn't.  Athos is going to have kittens over this.  And he’ll blame me.”

Aramis gives a rueful laugh.  “Well, I would say 'you are welcome', but I'm not sure _that_ really deserves it.”

“Maybe,” d'Artagnan concedes with a shrug.  He looks hesitant for a second.  “But take this as well then?  I'm sorry.  I shouldn't have said-”

Aramis holds one hand up to halt his apology.  “Please.  Any daring exploits of mine are far in the past – as you so kindly pointed out, but-” 

He breaks off and looks up as a door opens across the yard.  Together their eyes track Constance as she crosses towards the rooms she has made her home in.  She glances their way but continues purposefully onward.  D'Artagnan wilts beside Aramis.

“-But I'd advise you to never underestimate the importance of socks – or vegetables for that matter – or those who provide you with them,” Aramis continues pointedly.

D'Artagnan ducks his head but, with a sigh, he stands.  He turns and offers Aramis a hand, heaving him to his feet.

“You know, I _suppose_ you could protect me just this once,” he begins, eyeing Constance's door like a particularly fearsome opponent.  Aramis laughs.

“Absolutely not-” he claps his friend on the shoulder- “You have brought this on yourself.  And besides, I am injured.”

D'Artagnan hums in agreement, then raises one arm to pat Aramis' hand where it still lies on his shoulder, and goes to find his wife.

* * *

The door creaks onerously, warning Constance of the intrusion before it starts.  She ignores it.

"Is it safe?”  Half of d'Artagnan appears around the doorway, face pinched in exaggerated anxiety.

“That depends on what you've got to say to me,” she says coolly, not turning.  True to his word, Aramis had indeed worked through a great deal of her mending that morning – socks, shirts, doublets, and everything in between – and now she faces the somewhat enormous task of sorting through it all to return to the respective owners. 

The door closes softly behind her, and she feels her husband's approach before he reaches her.  Gently, hands rest upon her hips and his profile appears at her shoulder.  Against her will her body relaxes into his touch, even as she strives to remain aloof.  She sighs harshly, and flings down a cadet's shirt with more force than strictly necessary.  D'Artagnan retreats. 

“I'm sorry, Constance,” he says contritely, his expression more genuine now.  “Really.”

She turns at last, raises her brows at him.  For a second, his face, well, does the _thing_ and he hurriedly continues.

“I shouldn't have spoken to you like that.  Please forgive me.”  His eyes glint suddenly, and he ducks his head.  He has seen something in her face, she thinks.  He gazes up at her through his hair, even bites his lip.  “Please?”

God, give her strength – her husband is ridiculous.  And she loves him.  Loved him at twenty years old when this expression actually suited him, and loves him now with six years of violence and bloodshed behind him and standing before her actually expecting her to be charmed by this _rubbish_.  Except she is.  Utterly and completely charmed by him.  Still...

It isn't that he shouted at her – Heaven knows she does it often enough – but that he laid hands on her, barking orders and expecting to be obeyed without question.  It doesn't matter that it wasn't her he was even angry at.  Except, she thinks, it probably _does_.  Aramis was right; she knows d'Artagnan is not like Bonacieux, or so many of the men she has encountered who think that because she is a woman she can be threatened into obedience.  She is not _scared_ of d'Artagnan.  But for a split-second, with his hands gripping her tight without a thought that he might hurt her, she _was_.

“You do not speak to me like that.  You do not lay your hands on me _like that_.  My _husband_ will not treat me that way,” she tells him, and she is surprised to find her voice breaks over the words.  “Not this time.”

D'Artagnan hears it too and his expression drops into one of heartbroken shock.  All pretence is lost as he approaches her quickly, but hesitates until she nods before taking her hands.  He kisses her forehead then draws back.

“Constance...”  He rests their foreheads together, squeezing her hands in his own.  “I'm so sorry,” he whispers, his breath ghosting over her face.  “ _Please_ forgive me.”

There's nothing else to say, so they lapse into silence and Constance allows herself to simply be there with him, to be rocked and petted until the unexpected hitching in her breaths subsides.  Because she wants him.  Because she loves him.  And he's so sorry.  He's still _her_ d'Artagnan – her hopeless, endearing, brash, ridiculous husband.

“I will _never ever_ order you to do anything at all, ever again,” he murmurs into the space between them once she has calmed.  “I promise.”

She can't help it.  Her breath leaves her in a huff of amusement.  D'Artagnan frowns but there is a smile in his voice as he speaks. 

“Don't you laugh at me.”  

“Well, that lasted a long time.”

“I mean it,” he says seriously, following her, and bringing her closer with one hand at the small of her back.  “I will never _ever_ ,” he says between kisses, “presume to give you orders again.”

His kisses trail lower until it feels as though he is trailing fire down her throat, and her knees threaten to give way.  She pushes him back, breathless, and grins as he frowns in confusion. 

“Well...” she takes his hand and presses a kiss to his palm before placing it back lower than before.  “Perhaps...don't say _never ever_?”

There is a second where he doesn't quite seem to comprehend her meaning, then suddenly his eyes light up with interest and he launches himself at her kissing and laughing in equal parts.  She revels in him.  Knows he is not now, nor will he ever become, the sort of man to dictate to her or threaten her if she does not obey.  She is so _happy_ with him, with him _here_ , and she does not think she will ever stop feeling that way – not if they were to be married until they were old and grey and _please God,_ please let them be married until they are old and grey.

“Bed,” d'Artagnan orders with another kiss, his hands already roaming over the bare skin beneath her blouse.  “Now.  _Please_.”

“Well,” she considers, pushing him back a little.  “I suppose if my husband commands me...”

They share a grin and suddenly he is surging towards her again as, with a shriek, she makes for the stairs. 

“Yes.”   He catches her before she can reach them, and instead hefts her over one shoulder and carries her up them instead.  “I do.”


End file.
